Amabile by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Amabile
Page 104
He filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and listened to the familiar click of the burner. The kitchen window framed the same view it always had; the neighbor’s apple tree, the sagging fence, the strip of sky that never quite decided whether it wanted to be blue or gray.
When the kettle whistled, he poured the tea and sat at the table. The first sip was nothing extraordinary; just warm, slightly over-steeped, a little bitter.